


Figment of Imagination

by DeanBean



Category: Homestuck
Genre: I tried to make them seem older?, M/M, how do you jake?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanBean/pseuds/DeanBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re tense,” say the whispers on the edge of your mind. With a simmer, he’s laying beside you on your bed. He’s fuzzy and a little transparent like the people on a broken TV screen. You can make him solid, like he is actually there with his head propped up on his elbow and his hair perfectly spiked. But you don’t let that happen often because you want him too much. When you pretend that he’s actually there, you get too attached and you cry when you wake up because none of what you felt was real. Real men don’t cry. Especially jungle boys like you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figment of Imagination

“You’re tense,” say the whispers on the edge of your mind. With a simmer, he’s laying beside you on your bed. He’s fuzzy and a little transparent like the people on a broken TV screen. You can make him solid, like he is actually there with his head propped up on his elbow and his hair perfectly spiked. But you don’t let that happen often because you want him too much. When you pretend that he’s actually there, you get too attached and you cry when you wake up because none of what you felt was real. Real men don’t cry. Especially jungle boys like you. 

“Politely bug off please,” you say, shutting your eyes against the blurry vision of your futuristic best pal. Whenever you slept, he was there with you. You’d learned long ago that he was you. Your mind in a splinter attached to his personality. Yet you never changed it, because you’d never really met your best friend before. You’d never met anyone. 

“I’m only here because you want it. It’s-“ 

“My mind, after all.” You mimic his cool monotone with your hand opening and closing to mock the movement of his lips. “Don’t you think I know that already? Blast it, I can’t make myself control you and you know it.” You open your eyes to see him roll his. The one good thing about his translucence was that you could see straight through those stupid pointed glasses. 

Even when he’s not fully visible, he’s made entirely out of sharp lines and hard angles. The ones you’d seen only in pictures of your best friend. High cheekbones, shaped lips and a slender neck with muscles you liked to watch as he swallowed. A tight white T-shirt and loose black jeans covered his lean, tight frame. Once you’d realized that you could manipulate his clothes, it was hard to make him wear, well, _anything_. You sort of miss those days. 

He smirks at you because he knows what you’re thinking. He is your mind, after all. You brought him here, you made him smirk like that. You made his breath smell like clean citrus as it washes over you. It’s all a figment of your own pickle-flipping imagination. But you push that aside and exhale shakily. 

“What am I going to do when I meet the real you?” you rub your face, pushing your glasses back.

“I’m hoping you’ll be inclined to fuck my brains out,” he answers, splaying a long, thin, calloused hand over your stomach. Even through your T-shirt you can feel his warmth. You try to push him away but its like waving at smoke. He just reforms, right where he had been. 

“I don’t-“ 

“Yes you do, Jake.” He cuts you off with a murmur. His lips are right against your ear now as he whispers to you like you like. “Stop trying to make yourself believe otherwise.” You shut your eyes again and draw in a cracked breath. His voice changed something in the air and you’re a split second from panting like an virgin, touched for the very first time. 

Only briefly, do you let yourself recognize that this is actually true. The real you has never even seen another human in person besides your deceased grandmother. You hadn’t been face to face with anything but bul-fairies, pumpkins and wild eyed monsters since you were very small. 

Your dream-self was a rather pimping dude, on the other hand. Dirk came to you every night and did what you wanted. Then you returned the favor and did what you subconsciously made him ask for. When you finish, you wake up sweaty and achingly hard, tangled in the sheets of the bed in your real room with the sound of the jungle just outside your walls. When you relieve yourself, alone and remorseful is usually when the hot tears poke at your eyes like daggers. 

You swallow. “can you just… Just talk to me?” you plead. “Don’t touch me… Just…” 

“Whatever you want, baby.” His hand pulls away to leave you to your own devices, but you can still feel the pressure and the heat where it was. You feel his presence everywhere and you bite your lip, already straining against the zipper of your khaki shorts.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t be doing this at all because, to put the phrase in laymen’s terms, it is severely fucked up. But it’d been a tough day in the jungle. You’d run across three different booby traps and an arrow had nearly hit you square in the head. Jungle life was fun when you were a kid but now that it was pretty certain it would never end, you were tired of it. You deserve this little release. You tell yourself this every time. But this time you know that you really, _really_ mean it.

“Tell me what to do,” you command. You feel the satisfied smirk plastered on his face. He knows exactly what you want, because _you_ know what you want. The room is stifling. Your skin is prickling with bright red need and you really just don’t care about your part in his actions anymore. 

“Look at me.” Is his first demand. You open your weary eyes and stare into his orange gaze. “Take your shirt off. 

You comply, wriggling out of you over shirt first and then your tight shirt underneath. Now your chest is exposed to the hot air, expanding and contracting with each breath. 

“Mmm,” he purrs in satisfaction. Your breathing shudders. “Touch your chest. But take it slow.” 

You swallow before bringing your hands to your own damp skin, running them over your pectorals and up into your neck. He nods, assuring you that this was alright before you continue, rubbing and gasping and writhing on the mattress, already throbbing for more. A finger grazes your nipple and you exhale a soft moan, going back for more, pressing the flat of your palm against it. You knead yourself like a cat, the other hand tugging at the back of your own hair. “Mmm… Mmmn-next.” You whine. It’s pathetic, how desperate you sound. You almost feel sorry for yourself. Almost. 

“Not yet,” he smiles. He watches you as you groan, massaging your own skin with a need that burns. The sheets underneath you stick to your skin as you twist, hoping to achieve some sort of new angle as you pinch and twist your own sensitive buttons. Wow your shorts are way too fucking tight. You feel confined, trapped in your own want.

To try to distract yourself, you let your mind wander to when you used to touch yourself when pestering the real him. You were a boy, prepubescent and full of unrequited love and affection. He’d talk to you about the simplest things… and it turned you on. You’d lay on your bed with your computer over your head and stay as quiet as possible as you whacked yourself off. 

“Alright, time for a change.” His voice butts in. all you can do is nod and whine like a mistreated puppy dog. “Unzip your shorts, click by click.”

Before he can finish the command, you’re obeying. It’s agonizingly slow and as soon as the zipper is all the way down, your boxers tent out in front of you. You want to go further, rip down your underwear and just finish the job right there, but you don’t. You wait for his say so. 

“Slowly, and I mean _slowly_ , touch yourself. Over the fabric. Relish it for me, Jake. Let me enjoy you fucking yourself.” You nod, bringing a hand down to clasp your painful dick. You groan, digging your head into the mattress to keep yourself from going to fast. “Look at me.” He hisses. You flutter open your eyelids and watch him. 

His facial expressions seem to match yours as you gradually pump yourself, squeezing and cupping the way you’d perfected from so many years alone. His bites his plush lips, letting a hand stray down his own body to rest its fingertips inside the waistband of his jeans. 

“Do you like that?” he asks, scooting a little closer. You nod your head with a wretched moan. “Beg me for more.” 

“D-dirk.” You whimper. He shakes his head. That’s not enough. He wants you to articulate. “Please let me… More!” you try again, crying out as you’re forced to use your voice. He shakes his head again and you swallow, stopping your pumping to squeeze the dampness at the peak of your boxers. “You fucking cad! I just… Let me fuck myself! Let me spank the proverbial monkey and scream your fucking name as you watch. Just, please!” you beg. 

“Mmm, that’s what I like to hear.” He smiles. “Go on.” 

“Oh thank fucking Jesus H. Christ.” You shout, delving your hand underneath the fabric of your underwear. Your other hand pushes them and your pants down around your knees so you can have more room. “Mmm, yes, Dirk!” you cry, pumping yourself faster than you normally do. The tension was so built up. A swirling pressure was growing in your midsection and it wouldn’t be long. Not long at all because you weren’t trying to hold back anymore. 

Your eyes fall shut in passion and then there are lips over yours. A tongue presses into your mouth to dance and tangle with yours and you cry out against him, gripping the back of his head. His hand joins yours in its work, helping you pump up and down. You fingers tangle together in a motion so tender that its hard for you to fathom it’s happening. 

Your hips buck, once, twice, three times before your screaming against his mouth. Whiteness blots your vision as you explode across your own stomach and onto his clothes. 

You collapse, completely spent as he continues to work you, milking out every last drop. His lips draw back, bit by bit until he’s just pecking you once, over and over. 

“I love you,” you mumble, feeling yourself being pulled back to awakeness already. You hate this feeling. The feeling that you’ll never see him again, even though he’s there every time you fall back to sleep. Your eyes fly open again and you catch a glimpse of his faded image before it melts away into the blackness of your room. 

You sheets stick to you, as usual and you let out a heavy sigh, weighted with disappointment. 

You can’t wait until you can sleep forever.

**Author's Note:**

> lol what is grammar? I'm not sure if it's packed with errors or not because I wrote this fairly quickly. So I apologize for that in advance!


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